I still have faith that I will meet a mate.
Faith, no. No, not faith.
Faith is poured from the mouths of people devoted to something.
I have hope. Or, I hope. As a noun, it’s a pretty little package, edges neatly wrapped, folded just so. Like someone measured out the size, this length, this width, this piece of tape, this string.
Hope. verb. to want something to happen or be the case. No guarantees. No money back. No exchanges.
Believing that something could happen. Believing that someone out there is someone suited to me. To my flaws.
My sailor’s mouth. My tendency to push my feelings down into the crevices between my lungs and ribs, so they drag me down, until something so small will set off the softness that’s inside. My constant need of affection, and my occasional need for complete solitude. My demands, upon a mate, upon my lover, upon my partner. My demands that you not treat me with kid gloves.
My need to touch. My occasional, to me frequent to you, smack to the shoulder. My absolute genuine idiot exclamations. That I cry. I cry when I see road kill, or when a groot dies, oblivious to my surroundings. I cry when a song curls up at the base of my spine. I cry when I truly absolutely feel loved. I cry when I lose a pet, a companion, a best friend in the shape of a cat, dog, or horse. Oh how I cry then. I cry for people I’ve never met. I cry for people who don’t exist.
I hold back my tears when I fall. When I take layers off my skin, foolishly, leaving battle scars from carelessness. When I trip and slam my leg into a metal trailer filled with hay. My lip may tremor, til I bite it all back, my voice a bit choked. I laugh. When I slice my fingers when dicing peppers. When a jagged piece of metal slices a 4 inch cut down my arm. When I slip, and my knuckles scrape off the sides of pool tables, only to come back missing some of my skin, and stinging.
This doesn’t mean I don’t need someone to take care of me, it means I need it more than ever. When I hold back, is the time I need someone to pay more attention than ever.
I want to make a person a part of my home. My mate, our home. I want to share. I want to work side by side. I hope.
I nearly had a mate. a couple times in fact. but as my mother reminds me… “Katharine, he was a very nice guy, a great guy, but you know he’s not the guy for you.”
Yes, Katharine. You can’t save the boys who are too rowdy and who want to move mountains. You can’t change the boys who are in men’s bodies, who fumble your love like a football during recess. I can’t take in strays because they have beautiful bits about them, their hands, their compassion, their eyes, their honesty, their pride.
I hope it’s….. I just hope that one day it’s just right with someone. That I’d tear through the wilderness to be with him, and he’d fight a grizzly to be with me. The wilderness and grizzly being all the shit that brings us down individually, personally, professionally, romantically.
I fucking hope that I don’t keep on hoping forever. I hope my heart doesn’t give up on me. That one day I’ll be in the universe’s debt. That this mate will…. just be.